


In All The Six Galaxies

by Missilesilo



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: "keep it", Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Cats, Cybernetics, Gun Dates are a Thing, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mostly Canon Compliant, Nightmares, Past Jackothy, Prosthesis, Rhys MIGHT be an alcoholic, Shared Trauma, Slow Burn, Swearing, They/Them pronouns for Lorelei, Third person deep POV, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, consent is important, past Rhysothy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missilesilo/pseuds/Missilesilo
Summary: At his birthday party, Atlas CEO Rhys Strongfork is SHOCKED by the reappearance of the megalomaniac he was betrayed by six years ago. When he bumps into this handsome stranger again and again, Rhys learns there is more to doppelganger Timothy Lawrence than meets the ECHO-eye. Rhys and Timothy grow close despite their fears, but discover secrets that threaten to ruin everything they've built in Handsome Jack's absence.
Relationships: Timothy Lawrence/Rhys
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	1. JR4000

A chair. They had him tied to a chair. Rhys shifted, flexing his hands and arms to test the bindings. Okay, they had him _loosely_ tied to a chair. He could free himself of the red necktie knotted around his wrists with enough effort.

Rhys groaned weakly as his head pitched to the side. He slouched as much as his restraints permitted despite the bite of metal at his spine and the jab of the holstered JR4000 on his hip. Rhys’ foot slipped out from under him and he jerked forward, startled and unbalanced.

“Close your eyes, Rhys.”

“Guys, I dunno—” he broke off with another groan, his stomach flipping.

“Just wait, boss.” A hand clapped him twice on the back.

He exhaled through his mouth, heated breath resounding against his unbuttoned shirt collar. He tried it a second time. A third.

He wasn’t sure why he’d bothered with a breathing exercise; it wasn’t working. His heart refused to slow its pounding against his ribcage. If by some miracle he made it to HQ tomorrow, Rhys would _not_ be leaving his office.

Vaughn’s voice broke through the schmooze in the Hall of Volitional Mania. Rhys couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he sounded like the old Vaughn. Low-ranking-Hyperion-accountant Vaughn. Eh-I-don’t-know-about-this Vaughn. Can-we-go-home-now Vaughn. That particular version of his best friend wasn’t so common these days. Being a bandit king did that to a man... or something.

Vaughn’s words grew frantic. Rhys raised an eyebrow at the hushed voices. What was going on over there? The room swam with noise before Rhys could call out to him.

He sucked in a breath and straightened himself as much as he could manage. Rhys tried to make sense of what was happening around him. The music shifted into something slower and deeper. Bass rumbled in Rhys’ chest and pulsed through his abdomen.

With the track change, there was an increase in volume from the party-goers. Were they cheering or jeering? Both, maybe? It was probably for him, whichever it was.

Everyone he knew was here in the party Hall, taking shots, dancing, and living the dream. He’d been doing the same moments before, but they’d dragged him away from his fun, promising something that would be worth it. He equally doubted and relished the idea.

Why would the CEO of a recently resurrected weapons company be tied to a chair with his own necktie while his friends and employees wolf-whistled and cat-called?

Holy shit, what if said friends and employees had hired a sex worker for him?

His cheeks would have flushed if they weren’t already burning. Rhys couldn’t come up with another possible explanation for the circumstances he was in unless… Unless he was about to have his brains blown out by the only people he trusted. Stranger things _had_ happened in his lifetime, so maybe the possibility of his death was still in the cards after all.

He swallowed thickly and pushed the thoughts down. No one was here to kill him. He just needed to sit here and enjoy the good things to come. He deserved this.

Fidgeting in his seat, Rhys willed his blood to calm. His ears were crimson, and he could feel blood pooling elsewhere, too. Damn his obsession with well-fitting pants. His groin would not be comfortable— let alone inconspicuous— for long. Rhys whined under his breath and fought to stay still.

His skin prickled with goosebumps. Blood roared in Rhys’ head, muffling the hollering voices. Someone was staring at him. He was sure of it.

Heavy footfalls approached Rhys. The steps clacked in time with the bass of the song before they stopped directly behind him. Metal jingled near his left ear; leather squelched near his right. He stilled in anticipation.

Someone’s breath whispered against the nape of his neck. He shrank away on instinct— body strained forward against his bonds, head tilted back to hide the exposed skin— but he flushed all the same. A warm, broad hand captured Rhys’ jaw, guiding his chin farther back. A light gasp slipped from Rhys’ open mouth before he even knew it was coming. He shivered, felt his cock twitch against the taut fabric of his pants, and definitely did not lean into the calloused touch of a stranger.

In an instant, Rhys decided he was grateful they’d made him close his eyes. He couldn’t bear to meet anyone’s gaze right now and he was grateful with the option removed.

God, he was so embarrassed. God, he was so into this though. Maybe a little exhibitionism wouldn’t hurt? Not that Rhys had any idea about that sort of thing. His love life had been a little lackluster recently considering the whole Maliwan situation.

Rhys desperately needed some relief after dealing with a literal invasion of his company’s base planet. If that relief happened to be in the form of getting unbearably hard in public and getting a lap dance or a striptease from some stud instead of an extended vacation to the Eden system, well, so be it.

Rhys needed this guy—

Damn it, he let go.

Rhys needed this guy to hurry up and touch him again before he combusted on the spot. Rhys needed—

“WHO NEEDS A HERO?”

The sound that ripped from his throat was one Rhys would have to be horrified by at a later time. His eyes flashed open, ECHO implant already scanning his surroundings and illuminating them in cyan. Rhys jerked against his restraints as the chair wobbled beneath him.

His flesh wrist stung as the fabric dug tighter into his skin. His shoulder burned in its socket. Rhys wrenched his cybernetic free and floundered his right arm in the silky remnants of the necktie. His ECHO eye read nothing abnormal in his field of vision.

Everything would be fiiine. Rhys could grab an Anshin vial for his arm. He could buy a new tie. Hell, the man could buy a tie for every day of the year if he wanted to; he was growing richer every second. (Thank you, Atlas Corporation!) Everything would be okay so long as he could get the fuck away from—

“Woah! Heh— Hey there, kiddo!”

Rhys screamed and yanked his stun baton from its holster. Why did he not choose to carry a gun? Okay, honestly, that was his bad. But who the fuck would think they needed a gun at their own god damn birthday party?

This had to be karma. Had to be. He was an arms manufacturer wielding another company’s weapon after he’d literally burnt it to the ground and now the universe was doing some kind of revenge thing. No, that couldn’t be it. He was losing his mind. Rhys had officially lost his last marble. The Megalomaniac himself was back from the dead, again, or Rhys was a raving lunatic... He went with the former to be on the safe side.

Torso twisting around, he struggled to find his footing. His damp palm clenched around the base of the JR4000. He thumbed the trigger. The chair screeched against the tile and tipped backwards. Rhys yelped, hands trying for purchase on instinct. The stun baton sprang to life in his grip. All that existed was a sharp, electrical hum and then… nothing.

***

What… what the fuck was that? What did he just see? Shit, what had he just done?

Timothy shielded his face from the scene with his left hand after it was over. One blink of his eyes and he could see the body flying through the air again, the muscles convulsing, plasma arcing from the prosthesis.

Timothy ran his hand over his head, tugging hard enough to pop his neck— as if that were a feat these days. When his hair brushed his face, Timothy dropped his head into his palm before pinching the bridge of his nose.

Already, he’d managed to completely ruin the first quiff he’d styled in almost seven years. What a waste of hair gel. What a waste of his time. Actually, this whole damn job seemed to be a waste. Just hearing about the job offer made him sweat bullets anyway, but after that fiasco? There’s no way he’d see a dime.

With a sigh, Timothy focused on the man he possibly just murdered in front of a room full of people. He lay feet from the chair where the shock had thrown him, gangly limbs sprawled across the floor.

The stun baton still hummed on the tile. God, should he turn that off? He inched closer to the weapon and the body beside it, formulating how to avoid being shocked to unconsciousness and/or death.

“Hoo boy! I think you killed him,” Zane announced, clapping him on the shoulder. Timothy squawked, having nearly jumped out of his skin. He clenched his fist and shot daggers to the man who’d walked up from behind. Couldn’t he see Timothy was having a crisis?

“Don’t sneak up on me like that, Vault Hunter.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Timothy carded his fingers through his hair and opened his mouth to object. He froze, “Wait. You really think he’s dead?”

“He better not be,” said a small man, squeezing through the people gathered around. Timothy sidestepped to make room for him as he bent to disarm the baton. He squatted to inspect the body, plucking the pale arm from the ground with care. He pressed two fingers to the wrist and began to mouth a pulse rate.

“Damn it, bro,” the man whispered, returning the arm to the ground and scratching his dark beard.

“Bloody hell, what a shit show.” A newcomer shoved through the crowd. They gripped the pistol holstered at their hip as they regarded Timothy, their guarded eyes painted with fuschia. That was a warning sign if Timothy’d ever seen one. He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. He’d have to be careful not to give this venomous creature a reason to bite him.

“Hiya, Lorelei,” Zane offered in greeting.

“Do you blokes have _this_ ,” Lorelei gestured to the body, “handled? I’ll have to deal with the fallout tomorrow, so unless you need me, I’m hitting the sack while I can.”

The man on the ground looking over Timothy’s not-dead client shrugged. “What else are best friends for? I’ve got him, go get some sleep, Commander.”

After Lorelei waved their goodbyes, Zane faced the crowd and flung his arms out in exaggerated shooing gestures, “Go on, off ye go! Party’s over!”

Once satisfied with their dispersal, Zane unsnapped a belt pocket and pulled a med hypo from it. He held the hypo out to the man still crouching near the body, “I figure this’ll do him some good, Vaughn.”

The man— Vaughn, apparently— nodded in agreement, taking Zane’s offer. He plunged the needle into the unconscious man’s chest and squeezed the lever.

Timothy did his best not to cringe. He could watch someone get stabbed with a health hypo a million times— he probably had, to be honest— and still not get used to it.

“Either of you want to tell me what the feck that was about?”

Timothy groaned, tossing his head back. “I have no idea.”

“Yeahhh, it’s a long story. Don’t take it personally, uh—” Vaughn removed the empty hypo, “Sorry, what’s your name?”

Vaughn looked to him for an answer. “Oh! Um— I’m— Uh— I’m—”

“For cryin’ out loud, boyo,” Zane muttered, rolling his eye and holding his temple. “This here’s Timothy Lawrence.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Timothy,” Vaughn said with an expression he couldn’t place. “I wish it’d been under better circumstances.”

“Heh,” he chuckled, tucking his left arm across his abdomen. He was missing something. “You too.”

“You should go in case he wakes up. I need to get him to Medical anyway.”

“Right.” Timothy stepped back and halfheartedly shot a single finger gun. He was definitely not getting that money.

“Speaking of,” Vaughn looked to Zane, “Would you mind helping me with Legs here? I could get him there but I’d drag him across the floor the entire way. He might electrocute _me_ next if I mess up his shoes.”

Zane guffawed at Vaughn’s request, hoisting the man off the ground and over his shoulder by way of reply.

Timothy tried to keep his eyes from the ass dangling from Zane’s pauldron. Really, he did. Timothy was a gentleman. Timothy did not make goo goo eyes at an unconscious person’s body no matter how long their legs were. Timothy did not— Shit.

“I’ll see you around.” Zane winked at him. Possibly. It was hard to tell given the eye patch, but it seemed a safe enough assumption; he had flustered Timothy quite a bit on the casino.

“See ya, Zane.” A lopsided smile snuck onto Timothy’s face. He waved sheepishly.

Timothy retraced the steps he’d taken only minutes before. His head spun with scenarios involving his cybernetic client, but he couldn’t make sense of what happened.

“Long story,” huh? He would have liked to hear it.


	2. AX220 Pearl Chimera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> three idiots and a digi-clone walk into a bar... shit gets mildly kinky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that I left this on the back burner for so long for basically no reason! I had like two paragraphs to add. BUT HERE IT IS. Thank you for being patient with me. Please let me know what you think! Also, feel free to point out any errors, this is unbeta'd - CH4RL13

His birthday had only just occurred and Rhys was already mentally canceling the next one. What an absolute fucking nightmare. Rhys closed his eyes, brows furrowed, and hid his face in his hands.

At the edges of his memory, shattered screens flickered. The acrid tang of melting plastic burned his nose. Metal fingers squeezed the air from his throat and blue auras flashed behind his eyelids. He gasped a shuddered breath and stifled the beginnings of a sob into his shoulder.

How could this happen to him? Rhys’ digital haunting had occurred over six years ago and the Firehawk killed the “original” the year before that. Jack was  _ gone _ . It wasn’t him. Rhys pressed a hand to his chest. It couldn’t be him, could it?

Lying back into the headrest and trying to catch his breath, he drew his focus to Meridian as it rushed by. The neon lights of the city were familiar but they did little to comfort Rhys. He swayed with the vehicle as his driver maneuvered around the crumbling concrete littering the road. Torn and twisted Maliwan banners flapped lazily on street corners, buildings, overpasses, and blockades. They should have seemed like surrendering white flags but appeared graffiti-like to Rhys, screaming:  _ I was here and you didn’t stop me from doing what I wanted.  _

He never wanted to show his face again. Even if he completed the human cloaking tech and scuttled around unseen, he’d still be known as “that guy who electrocuted himself” instead of “Rhys Strongfork, Atlas CEO, greatest inventor since the creation of the hyperdrive.” Rhys may as well launch himself into the nearest black hole and let his team scramble to figure this shit out themselves.

As it turned out, taking on Atlas was more than Rhys bargained for. He could have never guessed how much paperwork was involved nor that he couldn’t go more than an afternoon out of the office without everything going to shit. Sometimes a day off meant a week of catching up. Two days off? He had done it twice. Both times involved an entire project being scrapped. 

Of course, there had been some general mild buzzing over the company’s resurrection, but no one appreciated Atlas enough to call them their favorite weapons. For folks to declare them industry-leading? It didn’t seem likely any time soon. 

He needed that to change. Rhys Strongfork, Atlas CEO and unsung conqueror of the galaxy’s most dangerous man, was  _ going _ to make that change. Though, as of right now, he’d be satisfied with one single day to focus on the line of guns that hadn’t even progressed from the design stage.

Rhys startled as an ECHO call from Vaughn came in. The log showed that he’d called off and on since he left for Pandora. Rhys connected the line with a frown.

“Hey, bro, how are you?” 

“Apart from the scorch marks and ruined clothes?” He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, earning him a wince from Vaughn. “Fine, medically speaking.”

“Have they discharged you yet?”

“Does this scenery look like a med bay to you? I’m on my way home.”

“Hey, so, about what happened,” Vaughn trailed off with a grimace.

Rhys huffed and rolled his eyes. He was already over this conversation. Could they just pretend no one saw anything? “Spit it out, Bandit King.”

“One of your idiot employees hired one of the doppelgängers, Rhys. I thought they were all dead, honestly?” Vaughn’s statement was more of a question. “I met him. Pretty decent guy for someone with a megalomaniac’s face.”

Rhys sat bolt upright. A doppelgänger? He was under the impression that Jack killed all of them shortly before he died (the first time). Why did this man suddenly resurface and why wasn’t Rhys made aware of him? 

“His name’s —”

“I don’t care what he calls himself, Vaughn. He’s– He’s–” Rhys stuttered, unable to speak the name aloud. “Who hired him?” He barked out the question before he could fall prey to his tongue again. 

Vaughn shook his head. “You’re better off asking Lorelei.”

Rhys scrambled to gather his things, hands shaking. “I have to go.”

“Rhys,” Vaughn started. 

He interrupted Vaughn with his signature, “Rhys out,” and cut the feed before the other man could finish.

Rhys flung himself from the vehicle as it pulled up to the housing complex, ignoring the cry from his driver. Rhys stomped through the doorway and nearly crashed into it. When he reached the far side of the lobby, he slammed his metal palm into the elevator controls. Once. Thrice. A steady stream of quick taps until the elevator finally  _ dinged _ open. 

Everything was taking so long he could scream. He stepped inside and growled in frustration, waiting for the doors to close. He wanted to break something, punch something. He wanted to lay in his bed and cry for a week. Rhys wanted to go home even though he was on his way there. He closed his eyes, forced the fists at his sides to unfurl, and rode in silence though his mind was anything but quiet.

Rhys exited the elevator and made for his door. Upon entering, he threw his bags aside and stomped through his apartment. His mind: a blur of blue and panic. 

How was he supposed to deal with this? Should he send Zer0 off with instructions to kill? Should he fire his employee or make an example of them? Could he punish someone for something they didn’t know or did it even matter? It didn’t have to matter. Rhys didn’t have to react in a professional manner at all. He’d witnessed insanity and cruelty firsthand. He was capable of the same- 

No. No, he needed to stop.

He needed to forget about Jack. He needed to forget about the doppelgänger, about work, about everything. Just long enough to get his head on straight. He needed a drink. He needed drinks. Multiple.

Rhys stopped his pacing and walked to his bedroom. He appraised himself in the mirror, adjusting his clothes. He viewed himself from another angle and tweaked his clothing once more. He wore his latest go-to look: a white dress shirt, navy pinstripe slacks, and a navy vest. The tie was missing, though it was likely shredded from last night’s impromptu bondage play. They’d torn it from him as soon as they could; was it really that bad?

He dropped the skag skin vest to the floor and smoothed his shirt. It was horribly wrinkled, as usual, except it now sported burns and a puncture hole ringed with blood. He stripped the ruined shirt, not bothering to unclasp all of the buttons, and flung it across the room. 

He felt disappointment like a rock in the pit of his stomach. A younger Rhys wouldn’t have been caught dead looking like this. Years ago, he had striven for excellence, fame, and fortune. He looked the part and played the role before anyone even knew The Atlas Corporation was back online. He had fought to become the man he was today, but things had changed. 

Simply put, Rhys was exhausted. He had meant it when he told the new Vault Hunter team that he’d rather climb a real ladder than a corporate one. Putting on a brave face and playing nice every day was taking its toll. He really  _ did  _ need that vacation, especially after tonight. The Eden system seemed suddenly very far away.

Rhys plucked a fresh white shirt from his closet, buttoned it, and tucked it into his slacks. He popped his collar and unknotted the crimson necktie hanging from his closet door. Normally, he used the same easy Four-In-Hand knot, slipping the tie over his head at the end of a long day and once again in the morning. Now, Rhys slowed his hands into the deft motions of a Windsor, even and secure. 

Rhys reconsidered the outfit in the mirror, finding he was still missing something. He rolled his single sleeve elbow-high and slipped on his flashiest boots. It would have to work; he had nothing else.

He’d fix his neglected image soon with some retail therapy. Tonight, Rhys had memories to forget and ghosts to (re)kill. He hailed his vehicle via ECHO and set the course for Joule’s. There was nothing a little intoxication couldn’t fix, right?

On his way out the door, he paused and ducked back inside. He’d almost left without a gun.

***

Zane invited Timothy out for drinks not long after they left Atlas HQ, and he jumped at the opportunity. The Vault Hunter claimed Joule’s was the only bar North of Neon Arterial that had lights, a cooling system, and cheap drinks. Whether or not that was true, Timothy didn’t know, but he was glad to have company all the same.

The place was charming– all skylights and conduits laid out in waves that spread across walls and up into rafters. Neon lights hung over the bar where Zane sat, beer already in hand. Timothy pushed past the people starting to gawk, falling into a mild version of his Murder Walk. In order to avoid conversation aka a million questions that were far too personal for his liking, he let his posture and his eyebrows do the talking. His body said one word only:  _ Danger _ . (Well, maybe it said  _ Jack  _ but they were the same thing, weren’t they?) Since his reintroduction to society, he’d had to pull this look often. It was an easy persona to fall back into. Timothy hated it.

He flopped onto the empty bar beside Zane, ignoring the way his cheek clasp  _ thunked  _ against the slick surface. He raised his hand, finger pointed.

“One Lemon Lime and Bullets please,” he asked the robot behind the bar. “Make it a double.”

“Hiya, Timmo.”

Timothy pushed himself up on an elbow, resting his head in his hand, and kicking a stool under himself. Zane smirked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Long day, eh?”

Zane laughed at him as he groaned in response and fumbled for the glass set neatly in front of him. Timothy knocked back his drink. Zane whooped with joy.

It only took two beers for Zane’s Digi-Clone to materialize in a flurry of blue pixels. In the span of one more, Zane went from openly flirting with the digi to spewing absolute filth. Timothy threw his hand up to shield his eyes, his face heated. Timothy wasn’t appalled by any means. He’d seen and done plenty in his day, sure, but there was only so long he could watch an attractive man tease and listen to his stupid charming voice without being affected. 

Timothy sucked in his bottom lip as he turned from Zane and the digi. He jerked his head up, eyes wide as they caught a flash of Atlas crimson. Timothy’s latest client stood on the other side of the building near the door. . 

“No way,” he breathed. “I’m just gonna… I’ll be back,” he said, glancing back at Zane.

Neither The Operative nor his digi paid Timothy any mind, too involved in whatever they had planned. He waved his hand at them as he stood from his chair, eyes glued to the man across the bar. Timothy very well could have passed him on his way in. 

Timothy had to apologize. When was he ever going to get this chance again? The guy could have slipped out the door without Timothy ever knowing he was here. 

Timothy eased closer, watching the man knock back a couple fingers worth of Maliwan Black Label in one go. He raised his eyebrows at the act. Generally, folks that could afford the stuff sipped lightly and enjoyed the mellow flavors, or whatever. That was not the case here.

The man faced the other direction as he swayed with the music. Timothy hesitated. He decided to tap his shoulder instead of calling out. He turned toward Timothy, his eyes crinkled and his smile brilliant. The man suddenly slipped and gave a yelp. Timothy wrapped his arm around the man to catch him, pulling him tight to his chest so he didn’t lose his one-armed hold.

“Easy there,” Timothy said softly.

Red cybernetic fingers splayed across Timothy’s chest and a warm hand clutched his bicep. As their gazes met, his heart fluttered against the brush of cool metal. Heavy-lidded eyes stared into Timothy’s, ECHO implant flashing turquoise. 

If he scanned Timothy, what would he find? What intel could this new Atlas possibly have on a man without a past? And which was worse, an ERROR message or an entry of a tyrant king where  _ Timothy Lawrence _ ought to read?

“Like what you see?” Timothy bared the tyrant’s teeth in a wicked grin and winked. “Take a picture, cupcake, it’ll last longer.” 

“It’s you,” he whispered, the glow of the implant fading. “You’re,” he paused, licking his lips, “unreal.”

Timothy chuckled. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, pumpkin. You took a nasty hit to the head.”

Timothy unhooked his arm from the man, noticing that anyone else would have let someone go by now. His fingertips glossed against smooth fabric and the topography of the small of the cybernetic man’s back. Timothy steadied the man and released him before his hand got the best of him. Neither of them moved away from the other. 

It occurred to Timothy that he didn’t know the man’s name, even still.

“What should I call you, sweetheart?”

“Yours.” 

“Sorry, what was that, kitten?” Surely Timothy had imagined the response he wanted to hear.

“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head. “Call me Kitten.” Hands slid down Timothy’s chest, fisting in the fabric of his hoodie, drawing their faces closer. Timothy shivered at the hot breath tickling his ear when he heard, “I want you to kiss me.”

Everything in the bar faded around them. The music hummed into noise. Neon lights blurred into color, haloing Kitten with blue and yellow. They caught each other’s eye again. Kitten gazed at him with a pair of mismatched irises, pupils blown wide and dark. Timothy swallowed, mouth falling open with a little click of his tongue. His breath mingled with Kitten’s, strong with the scent of alcohol. Heat pooled tight in his gut and sent blood to his thickening cock.

Someone laughed near them, deep and gleeful. Timothy found himself smiling. Here was someone literally begging kisses off him while pressed bodily upon him, dick warm and solid against his hip. Well, Timothy would give his pet what he wanted. He wedged his thigh between Kitten’s and pushed, teasing a gasp from his mouth. 

“Can I take you home, little kitty?” Timothy purred.


End file.
